


Was That An Explosion

by paradoxsoup



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Crack, Crack Treated Seriously, F/M, Fire, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Lots of it, Pray For Piett, Rescue Missions, Skywalker Family Drama, Whump, sometimes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-14
Updated: 2020-07-14
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:55:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25256512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paradoxsoup/pseuds/paradoxsoup
Summary: “Really,” said Vader. “After...reacquiring you, I take you directly here, to my private quarters on theExecutor,without telling a single one of my officers about your presence, refusing all security and medical droids, and you still do not think that I am, perhaps, taking these precautions for a reason?”“No,” Luke said again, still truthfully. He gave a large yawn, and his eyelids drooped. “I thought you were going through one of your throes of psychosis and depression. You know, like one of your usual genocidal rampages.”After rescuing Han from Jabba, Luke is very unfortunately kidnapped by Darth Vader. Han and Leia launch a predictably terribly planned impromptu rescue mission. Piett screams silently in the background. TheExecutorwould also be screaming if it were capable of speech, like any normal entity would if it were about to be set on fire.(ONESHOT)
Relationships: Firmus Piett & Darth Vader, Leia Organa & Han Solo, Leia Organa & Luke Skywalker & Han Solo, Leia Organa/Han Solo, Luke Skywalker & Darth Vader
Comments: 37
Kudos: 346
Collections: 2020 Star Wars Summer Fic Exchange





	Was That An Explosion

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MothLarva](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MothLarva/gifts).



> The request was for whump hurt/comfort Luke & Vader, which, if I'm being perfectly honest, got away from me a little, but I hope y'all still enjoy this nevertheless. I certainly enjoyed writing it, at the very least lmao.

The _Executor’s_ air vent was very cramped and uncomfortable, which was admittedly understandable considering that air vents were, like their name implied, built to transport air and not two miscreant rebels looking to rescue their comrade from a fate more horrible than imagination.

Not that, of course, the aforementioned miscreant rebels were in the same air vent at the same time, because that would’ve been too _easy._

“ _Are you done setting your fire bombs yet? You’re taking forever!”_

Han rolled his eyes—something done through sheer force of habit, since Leia couldn’t see him over the comlink—and twisted his neck for a better angle to speak directly into it. 

“I’m very sorry if my espionage skills are subpar,” he said, dragging himself forwards in the vent another inch, wincing as his cheek scraped across filth-covered sides and collected an eon’s worth of microbes, fungi, and other undesirables. Vader really needed to shell out more credits to his janitorial staff for a proper deep cleaning of the vents, because this was absolutely horrendous. “But this is _hard,_ Princess. It’s not like I’m trying to take my time about it, alright? I’m going as fast as I can.”

Static crackled. “ _Well,_ I _finished more than thirty minutes ago,”_ Leia announced, like it was simply fact that Han was the one at fault for not meeting her superhuman standards. _“I’ll give you another fifteen.”_

“Oh?” Han squinted ahead, where it looked like the vents were diverging. Was it a right, or a left? “And? What’re you gonna do if I don’t finish in fifteen?”

_“Rescue Luke by myself, you useless nerfherder.”_

Vaguely remembering from his hastily memorized map that it was a right, Han scooched himself over to the appropriate direction. Kriff, what he wouldn’t give for Artoo’s directions—it was a shame that they’d had to leave the astromech back at base for this impromptu rescue mission. “I’m glad that you value our partnership so much.”

More static crackled, but this time, Han surmised it was from Leia blowing a quick, frustrated breath. _“Sorry. I’m just...on edge. I thought we’d finally be able to catch a break after rescuing your ass from carbonite, but I should’ve guessed that would’ve been impossible.”_

In spite of himself, Han chuckled half-heartedly. In the bowels of Vader’s personal Super Star Destroyer, this was equivalent to a full-belly laugh. “Leave it to the kid to get himself captured right after a rescue.”

“ _It’s alright,”_ said Leia, and now it sounded like determination had crept its way back into her voice. _“We’ll save him. We have to.”_

There was another left coming up ahead. Then, it was a right, a right, and then one last left. After that, he’d have to detach the grille, drop down into the hallway, and attach the fire bombs at the predetermined weak points. 

“Of course we do,” he said, with a bravado he didn’t really feel. “I feel like every single dust speck that everyone on this Force-forsaken destroyer has generated over its entire service has forced its way down my throat. I’ll be damned if we failed after all this effort we’re going to.”

Ah, and there it was. He’d never miss the distinct pause that indicated Leia rolling her eyeballs. “ _Crawling through an air vent? How horrifying. What a miserable existence you must lead.”_

“Listen, I’m pretty sure when we divvied up the routes at the beginning, _you_ gave me the longer, filthier one—”

But Leia interrupted him. 

_“I have to go now,”_ she said, tone abruptly serious, no more sarcasm and jibes. _“I hear footsteps—I think there’s a patrol coming up near my area. I’m still really far up, so I don’t think they’ll hear me, but—you know. Just in case.”_

Instinctively, he craned his ear to listen for any footsteps in his own area. 

None. Thank the Force for small mercies. “Got it,” he said. “I’ll beep you when I’m done on my side.”

_“Sounds good. And—”_ Leia paused for a little, as if trying to find the right words. Finally, she said:

_“And really, please hurry up. I know that air vents are torture, but if my past experience counts, I really don’t think Luke is having a better time than you right now.”_

Han winced heavily. “Yeah. I know. Sorry. I whine too much. Love you.”

“ _Love you too, idiot.”_ The comlink gave one final crackling burst, then went silent. 

Han sighed. From his estimate, there were still approximately 100 meters to crawl until his target. Fun. Wonderful, terrific fun. 

But Leia was right, he resolved, and he began to crawl again, this time with renewed urgency, a shiver running down his spine. It was best to focus on the goal—he didn’t even want to think of what sort of sadistic torture Vader was inflicting upon Luke. 

The man, after all, was a monster. 

—

Luke wanted to die, except he couldn’t do even that because he was pretty sure that at this point, his father would gladly follow him into the Force and continue being absolutely impossible.

The bed was, however, comfortable. Imperial coffers at work once again—although he supposed that this might just as likely be a product of Vader’s own wallet. Either way, this would admittedly make for a nice place to die. 

“Please, no more,” he begged, with all his strength. “I’m serious. Really, _please,_ Father—”

“Drink it,” boomed Vader, looming over Luke like a dark cloud, except clouds didn’t usually look half as threatening as a Sith Lord. They also tended not to have ominous breathing cycles that echoed throughout the room. “Youngling, you will drink all of it—”

“I drank the last bowl, didn’t I?!” said Luke. “And the one before that. And the one before that one, too. That’s _three_ entire bowls.”

“Three is not enough. I have taken the liberty of exploring some Holo blogs, and they concur that five bowls of bantha soup is necessary for proper recovery—”

“First of all, you shouldn’t trust homeopathic parenting blogs for advice,” said Luke, shoving the fourth bowl of bantha soup that Vader had so carefully prepared aside, “and second, I swear, I _swear,_ by the Force, if you give me one more bowl, I will—”

He broke off, coughs abruptly racking his body. 

In an absurdly careful manner that was incredibly uncharacteristic of what Luke had come to know about Vader—this was, after all, the same monster who had cut off his hand—the Dark Lord of the Sith patted Luke’s back throughout his coughing fit. 

“Water,” Luke choked. Vader made the slightest of gestures, and a glass of water flew over from the counter to the bed, straight into Luke’s hands—he clutched at it, and drank it gratefully. It was cool, and soothed his burning, aching, itching throat. 

A touch of worry slunk past Luke’s shields. “Are you alright?” Vader asked.

“Hand me back to the Rebels, and I’ll be alright.”

“My son,” said Vader, “that is unfortunately impossible.”

“Like kriffing hell it is, just drop me off at the nearest system with a comlink and I’ll be good to go—”

“You must be even more foolish than I thought, if you truly believe that I will abandon my feverish son to the _Rebellion,_ of all things.”

For not the first time in the past twenty-four hours, Luke silently bemoaned his situation. He had been an idiot to push past the warnings the Force twinged at him, far too eager to hurry on to Dagobah. Who could’ve known that Vader had knowledge of his jump course and was lying in wait to intercept him along the way? 

Luke squinted. The fever made his vision a little hazy, but it was still, nevertheless, quite easy to make out Vader. He was the biggest, darkest object in the room. “Look,” he said, pointing a shaking finger at the indistinct black blob at his bedside, “I wouldn’t have a fever if it weren’t for _you!_ ”

Indignation rippled off Vader in waves. “ _I_ was not the one who idiotically parachuted out over water, and _almost drowned himself in the process.”_

“I wouldn’t have had to parachute out,” Luke coughed a little more, the black blob swimming in his vision, “if you hadn’t hit me right in the fuselage!”

“You were simply much too unskilled. It could not be helped.”

“It wasn’t my fault, alright, I’ve been meaning to get my X-Wing patched up but it’s been slipping my mind—”

“Blaming the ship instead of the pilot?” Vader asked. “How unbecoming of you.”

“It’s—” Luke scowled. His head was starting to twinge again—from the fever or arguing, he couldn’t tell. “Never mind. The point is, I don’t know what you want.”

“Oh?”

Words tumbled through his mind, one after another, each one as useless as the last. “Who am I?” Luke said at last, sinking back down into the soft silken pillows that Vader had prepared for him. This helped the headache somewhat. “To you, I mean. I’m...confused.”

There was no expression on it, as always, but the helmet of death tilted at him. “You are my son.”

He should’ve known to phrase the question better. Darth Vader was not a man particularly capable of picking up on the subtle contexts of conversation. “I know that,” he slurred. “But that doesn’t mean much, especially because of...you know. Our last meeting.”

Vader was still there at his bedside, unmoving, a monolith hewn from the darkest spots of space, devoid of stars and light. “Regret is a concept I am not immune to.”

“What,” said Luke, “so you’re taking care of me and treating me like some kind of crippled invalid, because...because you want to make up for everything you’ve done in the past? Like you can just,” he snapped the fingers of his prosthetic hand weakly, “get forgiveness like this? Like it’s some one-time deal transaction?”

“Forgiveness is not my intent.”

“Then what _is_ it?!” Luke snapped. “We’d literally just managed to solve the entire fiasco you’d engineered for us when you trapped Han in carbonite. We were celebrating. And then, you couldn’t even let me rest for one day before kidnapping and dragging me off to your private quarters on the _Executor_? What do you want? Honestly, just tell me! Torture? Manipulation? Stupid mind games? I don’t care—I’m sick, tired, angry, and frankly _done_ with whatever the kriff the galaxy expects out of me.”

There was a small silence, punctuated only by Luke’s harsh breathing, every gasp painful amidst his feverish lungs, and the incessant cycle of Vader’s own respirator. 

Then, amusement flooded through Luke’s shields. “You remind me of myself.”

“Don’t change the subject,” muttered Luke. 

Very predictably, Vader ignored him. “Young, foolish, and unaware of the dangers that lurk behind every step.”

“Yeah, _you_.”

“ _I_ am not the one you must be wary of,” Vader snapped, and the temperature lowered. In another time, Luke would’ve found this threatening—now, his only delirious thought was that this was way more effective at combating his fever than the ice pack on his forehead. “Are you not aware of the Emperor’s intense interest in you?”

The Emperor’s what now? “No,” Luke said truthfully. 

“Really,” said Vader. “After...reacquiring you, I take you directly here, to my private quarters on the _Executor,_ without telling a single one of my officers about your presence, refusing all security and medical droids, and you still do not think that I am, perhaps, taking these precautions for a reason?”

“No,” Luke said again, still truthfully. He gave a large yawn, and his eyelids drooped. “I thought you were going through one of your throes of psychosis and depression. You know, like one of your usual genocidal rampages.”

“How humorous,” Vader said, and Luke thought he might’ve raised a finger in preparation for a lengthy lecture, but he couldn’t tell, because he was closing his eyes and sinking back onto the mattress, ready to drift off into dreamland. His body was tired and aching, and he _needed_ to rest. 

“Later,” he mumbled into the black, silk pillow. “Imma sleep now.”

“I will stay with you,” Vader declared, to no surprise.

“Who’s…” Luke was drifting. “....Who’s gonna run the ship, if you’re not there?”

“Admiral Piett is more than perfectly capable of commanding the _Executor_ while I am taking an extended vacation in my meditation chamber.”

“‘Mm...really?”

“Yes. I would be exceedingly surprised if he were to fail in this minute task. After all, he has done this numerous times in the past. At any rate, I do believe that taking care of you, my son, is a much more difficult endeavor than commanding the _Executor._ If it was not for my paternal relationship with you, I would envy him.”

—

At this particular moment, Admiral Firmus Piett, was, as a matter of fact, not a figure of envy.

“What do you _mean_ there’s a womp rat in the air vents?” he hissed into the holotransmitter, leaning back against his office chair. “That is _impossible_.”

The lead patrol stormtrooper had the decency to look abashed. Or, well, Piett thought he looked abashed, because his helmet drooped down. Who the kriff knew what they were actually thinking, behind the blank white masks? “I know it sounds crazy, sir, but my men have been reporting banging. And loud thuds. And screeching. All up in the...vents.”

Piett rubbed his forehead. “The vents,” he echoed. 

“Yessir. The vents.”

Of course. How rational. 

“I knew I should’ve pushed harder for an increase in the cleaning budget last quarter,” Piett muttered. “It’s about time we got them deep-cleaned.”

The trooper shifted uneasily. “What do you want us to do, sir?”

That was an excellent question. In other times, Piett would’ve merrily signed off on an expedition to “go-clean-the-vents-of-womp-rats,” and gone off to relax with a hard-earned cup of caf, but this was not ‘other times.’ Lord Vader had an unusually short temper as of late, and his last orders to Piett were terse and extremely clear: he was not to be disturbed, at all costs. 

Ordering a womp rat extermination and the consequent clomping around in the air-vents would, therefore, be contradictory. Possibly fatally. 

So instead, Piett shrugged and said, “Not a problem, Captain. We’ll get it checked out once we’re at port. Until then, tell your men to ignore it. We’ve got bigger dianogas to fry. Dismissed.”

“Yessir. Of course, sir.” The trooper gave a short salute, and the holo image winked out. 

As soon as the link was no more, Piett gave a massive groan and slumped into his chair. He brushed aside the datapads crowding around him on the desk, reached for the cup of caf in the corner, brought it to his lips, and—

Empty. 

Brilliant. Perhaps this was a sign from the universe, that it was unwise for him to continue a self-destructive habit. But his craving for addictive chemical stimulants would not be so easily denied. Piett gripped the cup tighter, got up, and stalked out of his office in search of the nearest caf machine. 

_Down the hallway, and the first left you see,_ he thought to himself as he moved. _Down the hall...first left… there!_

Triumphantly, he strode towards the small black dispenser, shoved his cup under the spigot, pressed the ‘dispense’ button, and—

‘EMPTY,’ the screen flashed. 

He tried not to laugh out loud, because that would make him look like a maniac, and Lord Vader was the only one he knew who could wear mania fashionably. 

There was nothing else for it, then. Retrieving his cup, he turned around and set off for the _other_ caf machine, the dreaded one, the one that no one ever used because it required trekking through a good fifteen minutes of twists and turns in the labyrinthian bowels of the _Executor._

But, he grimly reflected, as he set off on this dire mission, there was no other choice. 

Free will was an illusion. Life was meaningless. Death? He laughed at death. Caf was the only contrivance of any import. 

—

After a truly cursed amount of time, trials, and tribulations, Han finally crawled his way over to the designated grille. 

_“You’re there?”_ Leia asked, after Han alerted her over the comlink. 

“Yup,” said Han, popping the ‘p’. “Any stormtroopers find you?”

_“Of course not,”_ said Leia, sounding offended. “ _They thought I was a womp rat. That’s all.”_

“A womp rat, eh?” Han scrutinized the grille—thankfully, it looked like it would come loose with just a few screws. Lying flat on his belly, he reached into his pocket, withdrew a screwdriver, and began twisting away. “Not too far from the truth, I guess.”

Leia’s voice was amused. _“Han Solo, are you calling me a womp rat?_ ”

“Ah, you know me,” said Han. The first of the screws was done, so he plucked it out and began working on the second. “I’m a neverending bounty of metaphors and pet-names to describe my one true love.”

“ _Sometimes,”_ Leia reflected, _“I wonder if I should’ve kept a vat of carbonite around, just for you.”_

“Whatever you say, my brilliant womp rat Princess.” Second screw was done, just as easy as the first. “Tell me something, though. Are you sure there’s going to be no one around when I drop in here?”

_“Of course I’m sure.”_

“Yeah, well,” Han squinted through the grille, screwing away all the while, “it looks like there’s a caf dispenser down here. Are you _still_ sure I’m not going to walk into an Imp on break?”

_“Oh, come on,”_ said Leia. _“Is that the only thing? We’ve researched this before, remember? Yes, it’s a caf dispenser, but no one ever uses it. It’s too far out of the way. You’ll be fine. I don’t even know why they put a caf dispenser here, out of all places. Probably something to do with an excess recreation budget.”_

“Ah, the budget,” intoned Han. With a final twist, the last screw was loose. He plucked it up, threw it aside, lifted up the grille, and gently set the grille aside in the vent as well. “Credits doth make fools of us all.”

_“Hilarious_. _Are you done?”_

“I was actually thinking of debuting my new, undiscovered Mon Calamarian Opera, but you don’t seem like a fan. I’m hurt.”

_“Ha ha,”_ said Leia dryly. _“Come on, nerfherder. We’ve got no time to spare.”_

“I know, I know, Luke and torture,” said Han, wincing as images of needles and probes and instruments flashed unhelpfully in his mind. “Got it. I’m coming.”

Cautiously, he poked his head out into the opening and looked around in the room it opened up to. No Imps in sight. Just a lonely caf machine, sadly whirring away and holding psychoactive treasures that would never be unearthed. Hesitating a little, he gave a second glance. 

Still no Imps. 

“For kriff’s sake, it’s just a caf machine, Solo,” he muttered, and, steeling himself from within, swung his legs into the opening, grasped the ledge, and lightly dropped down onto the floor below, his movements as smooth and graceful as a tooka-cat. 

Unfortunately for everyone involved, this was also the exact moment that Admiral Piett chose to walk into the room.

—

At first, Piett and the unknown human male who had just dropped out of—out of the _kriffing air vent_ in front of him simply stared at each other in abject shock. They had a bigger problem than womp rats in their air vents, Piett thought hysterically. Quite literally bigger. If only he had his blaster with him—he silently swore this would be the last time he was leaving it behind in the office while taking a caf break. 

He squinted. Wait. The male looked extraordinarily similar to one of the Imperial bounty posters—

“Are you—are you Han Solo?” he stuttered. 

“Uhm,” said Solo, staring at him like a fathier caught in a speeder’s headlights, “yes. Kriff, you’re the admiral guy. I dunno what your name is, but you’re important, aren’t you? I don’t think I can shoot you. Leia, can I shoot him?”

After a short silence, in which Piett assumed that ‘Leia’—goodness, was that Princess Leia? _The_ Princess Leia, skulking around in the _Executor’s_ air vents as well?—thankfully answered in the negative, Solo scowled. “Okay, fine, don’t worry, I’m not shooting him.”

Piett’s eyes boggled. “What in the name of—no, you know what? I don’t want to know. Please tell me you’re not here to make all our lives miserable. Or kill more innocent non-combatants, or generally commit more war-crimes. I have had _enough_ of that.”

Solo fidgeted a little. Piett noted, wrinkling his nose, that he was caked all over in a thick layer of dust. “Er, yeah. Actually, I am. But you guys commit a lot of war-crimes too, so I figure it’s pretty fair.”

“That is not how this works!” Piett objected. 

“It’s _exactly_ how it works,” said Solo, rolling his eyes. “You’re deranged if you think that I’m going to sit here on my ass while your boss tortures my friend, alright? Okay, I mean, I guess Luke’s a mass murderer depending on your point of view, but that doesn’t mean he deserves to get his guts sliced open on an operating table for the sake of vengeance—”

But Piett’s brain had stalled at the mention of _torture_ and _friend_ and _Luke._ “I’m sorry,” said Piett, “ _what._ ”

“Uh.” Solo gestured around vaguely. “You know? Vader kidnapped Luke Skywalker and is torturing him in his private chambers? Hello? Was this not part of your daily evil Imperial memo?”

Piett opened his mouth, raised a finger, then closed his mouth and lowered it. 

“Oo-kay,” said Solo, slowly putting his hands up and backing away, “I’m guessing that’s a ‘no’. Careful there. You look like you’re about to have an aneurysm, and that’s not good when you’re old. Or actually, any age, but especially when you’re old. Like you.”

“I—” Piett internally screamed. Everything was moving too fast. “Lord Vader didn’t tell me why he was preoccupied, but it all makes sense now. You’re here to rescue Luke Skywalker.”

“Bingo!” Solo waggled his eyebrows. “Give that old dog a bone!”

He bristled at the comment, but didn’t make any retort. As an Imperial officer, he was much too dignified for that. “This doesn’t change the fact that I’m honor-bound to try my best to stop you,” he informed the infamous smuggler. 

“That’s true,” said Solo, “but then I’d have to kill you. Or something like that. Can’t stun, because my blaster, uh, doesn’t have stun settings. And Leia’s right that if I kill you, Vader will _definitely_ know that we’re here and come down on our asses.”

“How very unfortunate,” said Piett, feeling dread trickle down his spine. Perhaps he could com for help? But no, by all accounts Solo was an excellent shot—he’d simply shoot the communicator out of his hand. 

“Isn’t it?”

“Then I am afraid we are at an impasse,” said Piett. 

Solo opened his mouth to answer, but then frowned and raised his comlink up to his ear. “Huh? What’s that, Leia?”

Piett idly tapped his foot on the floor and waited for Solo to finish the conversation. 

“Okay,” Solo said finally, tucking the comlink back away, “how about this? Very soon, as in like, five seconds, there will be a pressing disaster on the _Executor._ Therefore, your time would be better spent mitigating said disaster instead of attempting to apprehend me.”

Alarm shot through him like a blaster bolt. “Excuse me, _what_ disaster are you talking about—”

And then everything started shaking. 

—

Luke blearily opened his eyes. There was something buzzing in the background, but in his feverish state, he felt like his ears were being muffled with cotton. “Wuzzat an explosion?”

The answer was immediate. “No,” said Vader, reaching out to touch Luke on the forehead. _Sleep,_ the command resonated. “Go back to sleep, and do not concern yourself with such trivial matters. I will take care of it all.”

Wearily and reluctantly, Luke obliged and closed his eyes again, sinking into the mattress, back into blissful oblivion. 

—

_“You set off fire bombs in the aft of the_ Executor?!” Piett shouted at Solo, feeling the color rapidly draining from his face, the alarm klaxon blaring loudly all the while. _“Are you insane?!”_

The aft of the _Executor_ was where Lord Vader’s meditation chamber was located, he thought bleakly. _Shavit._

“Actually, we were initially going to set off two sets of fire bombs, but you interrupted me, so you Imps got a half-off deal. Congratulations! You can go see for yourself,” said Solo, cheerfully making a shooing motion with his hand towards the exit. “You better get over there before things start _heating up_ too much.”

In a strict breach of professional Imperial conduct, Piett flipped his finger at Solo before turning around and running towards the bridge, where he could sort this mess out, hand already reaching towards his holotransmitter. 

—

The moment Han saw the Admiral take off around the corner, he yanked the firesuit out from his pack, and hastily stepped into it, making sure the straps were secure. The respirator went around his face, and when he took his first breaths, he momentarily felt like Darth Vader himself, except significantly less psychotic. 

“I’ve got my firesuit on!” he yelled into the comlink, to Leia. “The explosion didn’t punch any holes in the hull, right? I’m not going to get blown out into space in the middle of the hallway?”

_“Of course not,”_ answered Leia, sounding slightly insulted. _“What do I look like? An amateur? I_ have _used fire bombs before, you know.”_

“You’re gonna have to tell me that story some other time,” Han muttered. “Alright. I’ll meet you in the central hallway down towards the aft, as planned.”

_“Copy that. See you there.”_

He started sprinting.

—

Vader barely gave a second glance at the image of Piett that flickered out over his comlink. “Lord Vader,” the admiral panted, his face noticeably ashen even through the transmission, sweat gleaming on his brow, “there’s—I regret to inform you that Rebels have infiltrated the _Executor,_ sir. I believe them to be Princess Leia and Han Solo. They have set off fire bombs and compromised the _Executor’s_ aft integrity. From what I’ve gathered, they are here to rescue a prisoner named—”

“I know,” said Vader. He was already standing up from his vigil by Luke’s bedside, concentrating and gathering the Force around him in a cocoon. With a careful nudge of his thoughts, Luke gently rose up from the bed and floated over to his side, limbs dangling limply. “Their plan is admirably brave and foolhardy. Perhaps against any other of lesser fortitude, it would succeed.”

Darth Vader would not be cowed by flames. He’d braved far worse, for far less. 

Piett visibly swallowed. “What—if I may ask, sir, what are you planning to do?”

“Proceed as normal protocol dictates, and evacuate all personnel from the affected areas,” Vader ordered. “As for me, it…” he considered the situation a little before speaking, “...it may take me a little longer, because I will be carrying...Luke Skywalker with me, but I will nevertheless escape as well.”

There was a moment of silence as Vader watched Piett’s face go through the series of emotions that indicated a man wishing to question the wisdom of carrying literal unconscious deadweight through a firestorm, but also wishing to retain further usage of his limbs. “Of course, my lord,” Piett answered at last. 

“I am glad you trust my judgement, Admiral,” Vader drawled. “In reciprocation, I will trust you to handle the _Executor,_ as always. Do not fail me. Dismissed.”

Piett snapped off a salute, and closed the link. 

Vader turned to the exit of his chamber and willed the doors to slide open. They did, and revealed the world of hissing, roaring flames, the sprinklers showering water on them and diminishing visibility to nothing more than clouds of cloying smoke. 

—

Han had been happily traipsing along with Leia in their firesuits, the fireproof material protecting them from the worst of the heat and the respirator shielding them from the stinging smoke, when a chill ran down his spine. This was, to say the least, extremely unordinary considering their current Mustafar-esque environment. 

Then he saw the dark, indistinct, looming figure in the haze striding towards them, as strong and sure as death itself, and he almost died of a heart attack. Although, perhaps, a heart attack would’ve been the kinder way to go. 

“Leia, you numbskull of a princess,” he hissed. “You said he would’ve evacuated by now!”

“I didn’t—” Leia’s voice was tight and shaking. “He _should’ve_! With the rest of the personnel! The heat’s too dangerous for his life support systems—there was no reason for him to stay around this long, we’ve waited—waited long enough for him to get out, but—”

“But,” Darth Vader boomed, appearing out of the sprinkler-induced mist like some kind of dark, skeletal angel, “you have failed to gauge my reactions to an unusual circumstance I had, surrounding me. I congratulate the two of you for your bold thinking—truly brave, to set these hallways on fire, wait for all personnel and I to evacuate, and then wade in with firesuits to rescue your friend like intrepid storybook heroes. Indeed, a brave plan...your only mistake was failing to consider the value that my son holds to me. It took me a while longer to navigate these...conflagrations while protecting him, but as you can see, I am no worse for the wear.”

Now, Han belatedly noticed the second figure that was floating next to Vader—Luke, peacefully slumbering away in the chaos. But he wasn’t thinking about that, because his brain had stalled on Vader’s last sentences.

_“Son?!”_ he said, incredulous. Next to him, he couldn’t see Leia’s face through the respirator and protective headgear, but he could practically feel the shock rolling off of her in waves. 

“Oh my,” said Vader, tilting his helmet. Han could’ve sworn he was smirking. “Did he not tell you? How amusing. Perhaps he does not trust his friends as much as he said he did. Then, in that case, out of respect for your foolish bravery, I will allow you to live if you simply step aside and allow me to carry my son out of here—”

“Oh no you _don’t_ ,” snarled Leia. “I don’t think so, you—you absolute _slog of a machine_!” 

“Y-yeah!” Han interjected, with much more bravado than he actually felt. “You’re a traumatizing ass of a father, and no matter how many juicy family secrets the kid has kept from us—actually, if he had a few more, maybe I could pitch this to one of the holodrama channels—”

“ _Han—!_ ”

“He’s our friend,” said Han, drawing out his blaster, feeling despair flood his veins in the face of a hopeless fight, even as conviction bolstered his heart, “and if you don’t mind, we’re _taking him back.”_

Vader considered them for a moment, and Han idly wondered what emotions were flashing through the Sith’s mind—annoyance? Disgust? Surprise? Or maybe, even grudging respect and admiration? But whatever it was, the moment soon passed and Vader’s lightsaber sprung off his belt and into his hand, the brilliant red blade flaring into life and piercing the haze. 

“Regrettable, yet predictable. I will give you the ending that a foolish hero would deserve,” he hissed, raising the lightsaber, high above, an executioner’s blade, and Han squeezed the blaster, ready to fire—

_BONK._

Han and Leia gaped in astonishment as Vader staggered, once, twice, then fell, like a monstrous black tree, onto the ground. There was a resounding thud that Han didn’t register quite fully, because he was now staring at the lithe figure that was standing there, in Vader’s place. 

“Hey, thanks for the rescue.” Luke Skywalker coughed heavily into his hand. “But seriously, did you guys have to be so dramatic about it? I’m using the Force to protect me right now, but fire really isn’t good for my lungs.”

“Fire isn’t good for _anyone’s_ lungs, kid,” said Han, because he had no idea what the kriff else to say. 

Leia recovered. “L—Luke, _how_.”

“I, uh,” Luke winced a little. “Sorry. I was unconscious back there because of my fever, but weirdly enough, I think the flames and everything actually helped me out and broke the fever. So then, I woke up, saw my fath—Vader—”

“We know he’s your father,” said Han. “Thanks for telling us, by the way.”

“ _Han,_ this is not the time—”

“No, no,” said Luke, wincing again. “I get it, I shouldn’t have hidden it from you guys—I was just—confused, okay? And also kind of depressed, if we’re being honest about it, but that’s—kriff, we’re getting sidetracked. _Anyway,_ I woke up and saw my father about to murder you guys, so I got back on my feet and knocked him out with my metal hand,” he flexed it, as if to emphasize the fact, “and a little help from the Force.”

“And that worked?” Han said, incredulous for what was perhaps the hundredth time in the past hour. 

Luke shrugged self-deprecatingly. “I guess so. He wasn’t really focused on me, so you could say that I got the jump on him. Kind of lucky, too.”

The three of them all stood there for a moment, pondering the intricate and mysterious ways of the universe at work all while the fire blazed and raged around them, and Darth Vader’s unconscious body lay there prone on the floor like an incredibly unfortunate rug decoration that wouldn’t have fetched a buyer at half-price. 

Fortunately for all of them involved, Leia snapped back into business mode first. “Right,” she said briskly, “we have to escape—we planned to go to the hangar on the right here. It has fire barriers, so it should be relatively intact.”

“Right,” said Han, making his way towards the hangar in question, but then Luke interrupted them. 

“We can’t leave my father here to burn alive,” he objected. 

“Luke,” said Leia patiently, “I know you love your father, but he’s genuinely a terrible person that the galaxy would honestly be better off without.”

“ _Please,_ ” Luke begged, looking up at them with large, pleading blue eyes, and Han’s heart melted. Much like his skin was doing at the moment, actually, but that was besides the point. 

“Shavit,” he said. “Let’s do this.”

Leia whipped her head around to look at him. _“Seriously?!”_

Han shrugged helplessly. “What’s one more death-defying experience?”

And so, that was how the three of them ended up lugging Darth Vader out of the flaming hallway and into the hangar—Luke used the Force to aid them, so it was actually a viable endeavor—and then, into the first shuttle they saw. They threw Vader into the cargo bay (Luke assured them it would be alright), then Luke took the controls, Han settling into the co-pilot seat. Along the way, there was a frantic, worried transmission from Piett to Vader—Leia cheerfully intercepted it, told him that his boss was taking an unexpected vacation, and promptly hung up. 

Miraculously enough, they were able to slip out into hyperspace with the shuttle unawares. 

“Piett must’ve informed them not to fire,” said Luke knowingly. “Didn’t want to risk it, with Vader onboard.”

“But we didn’t have TIE fighters sent after us in pursuit, either,” Leia frowned. 

“Eh,” Luke shrugged. “Same worry, I guess. The guy actually cares for Vader.”

“Didn’t know anyone did,” Han snorted. 

Luke’s smile was painful. “There’s me, I suppose.”

That was true, as they’d found out earlier. 

“Hah,” said Han. “Very funny. So now what, farmboy? We’ve got a genocidal Sith lord in our cargo bay, and we’re on the run again. Got any plans?”

Leia was also smiling, even if stress was behind ninety percent of it. “And here we are, boys. Back in the middle of trouble, with all three of us.”

“Back in the middle of trouble,” Luke echoed, grinning widely. 

“Ah, shavit.” Han dropped his head into his hands, sighing. “Just one day. Just one day to myself, with peace and quiet, is all I ask.”

“Well, you never know,” Leia said sagely, and looked at Luke. “What do you say? Peace and quiet? Tomorrow?”

“Have you forgotten about _Darth Vader_ in our cargo bay?” Han asked, gesturing wildly. “I mentioned that three seconds ago, didn’t I?”

“Of course we haven’t forgotten about him,” Luke assured. “We’ll be fine, Han. I’ll go talk with him—he should wake up sometime tomorrow—and work something out. You’ll see.”

“I’ll see,” Han echoed, doubtfully. 

“Tomorrow,” Leia said, shaking her head with amusement. “What a wonderful concept.”

“Tomorrow,” Luke agreed, and he smiled with the promise of a future, shining brightly like a star in an abyss of endless darkness. 

THE END

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
